


The Reflection Beneath

by Angie (Angie13)



Category: Little Mermaid (1989)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 17:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angie13/pseuds/Angie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ursula has a great deal of things on her mind, the least of which is her opinion of a certain little mermaid.  Set during her time as a human, Ursula faces down a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reflection Beneath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyrate_trove](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pyrate_trove).



> I want to thank my patient betas - a roomie who is far too good to me, friends who show me shinies, and agents who accept the holiday delusion.

I feel her eyes on me and know without turning that the brat has managed to clamber her way to the balcony of my room, only to stare at me with those ridiculously big blue eyes. It is a weak stare, limpid and boring with no kind of backbone to it. Despite her constant cries of "not fair" and "I'm special," she has about as much strength and independence as a jellyfish. How else would I have gotten her into this position in the first place? Triton's most precious little daughter snagged by the instant gratification His Majesty himself trained her to.

(That is the best revenge, really - putting the sweet little fishie out on her very own hook, made with her own hands.)

Humming with my stolen voice, I pretend that I don't know she is there. Easy enough, really. She's silent as the depths of the ocean, the deepest parts where pressure tops everything else. But her eyes get annoying quickly and the enjoyment I take of frustrating her dies as she just stands there at the window and stares and stares and stares. No guts, that is her problem. Anyone who wanted what she wants, who had an ounce of self-respect, would tear out my hair. I would never put my back to someone like that. With the little princess, I do not even hesitate.

(I know her morals much better than she realizes. I know the harsh lessons her Daddy bred into her.)

Long silence fills the room and I hum louder to cover the annoying stalemate. She cannot speak and I do not care to indulge her at all. In fact, there is some strange satisfaction in making her twist. She has no words but I know what she is thinking. Her face has about as much control as every other aspect of her. She hates me without knowing me, all for the sake of a prince she has known less than five days. A stray thought enters my head and, as she stares, it is tempting to summon my dearly beloved to deal with his previous favorite. Tempting but not worth the effort in the end. It isn't that I doubt my hold over him because I don't. Not for a moment. I am and always be the one in control. I can hardly remember a time where I bowed to anyone.

(That is a lie. I remember all too well and the brat will pay for it.)

Picking up a brush, I begin working over my long brown hair. For a few moments, the differences between this body and my proper one occupy my mind. Comparing silky, dry strands to the rougher, salt-wet ones of reality fills the moments easily as I consider how long to play this particular game. A sudden noise takes the decision from me and I allow my eyes to meet hers in the reflection of my looking glass. Her lips are parted but I know nothing came from between them. Nothing possibly could. I wear her voice in the nautilus at my throat. I watch as her hand curls into a fist and twitches at her side. The nervous energy in her little body is only barely controlled and her hand jerks for a moment or two beyond what she would actually want. Ah, there we go. The petty thing knocked over a vase and I watch her turn to stare at the dripping water and scattered roses. Roses brought by that fine fellow of a prince.

(I remember bouquets of coral and fronds and beautiful deep-sea roses.)

With a gasp, I turn and show her a convincing look of heartbreak, setting down my brush as I go. It hits the vanity with a faint clatter that rings through the silence like a storm cracking a ship in two. I watch her start away from the mess she made now, awkward and ungraceful out of the water. Then she turns a sheepish look my way, her hands coming up as if apologizing. Her palms toward me, she waves her hands about for a moment before she realizes that I have not spoken another word. In fact, I haven't even allowed my expression to change. I watch her slowly cave inwards, shrinking down as if she is already planted in my grove beneath the waves. From defiantly angry at my poaching of her prince to little more than a pouting princess in no time at all and I consider for a moment why her, why now.

Because she was there and came to me first and had just the same love-blindness that I knew so well. Her sisters never gave away their hearts. They were too much like their father in the days after his loss. Even the silly ones because they had the right kind of selfish self-protection built into them.

(You need to have just the right mixture of hope and obliviousness and willful rebellion to believe you are the first person in the history of the ocean to know true love.)

I watch as she drops her gaze to stare at the floor and then at her own feet. Her bare feet. I curl my own toes in their delicate, confining slippers. Fin for feet, it still represented the worst bargain ever cut. My stare feels mocking even to me and it is a wonder she can stand there without any idea. For a moment, I find myself searching her blandly pretty face for some clue to an interesting internal dialogue. She cannot speak but one would hope she can still think. I never regret my choices but it would be almost nice to feel some sort of resistance. I should know better than to expect anything from this girl, though. She is soft and sweet for all her obnoxious selfishness. She is the sort of girl that other people find solutions for, after all. When was the last time Triton's youngest jewel had to make her own decisions, had to tidy her own messes?

She is no challenge to me. She stands at the doorway there with her head lowered and her fingers pulling at her skirts and, even without knowing who I am, she cannot look me in the eye. Yet she wants her happy ending and her prince and her castle above the sea and she wants it in the same unthinking way a child grabs and crushes the tiny, flickering fish that swim by.

(Maybe that is the real reason. Call me what you like but I have never been afraid of hard work. I wanted my own happy ending but it was my own magic that would have created it.)

"Listen, little girl," I murmur and the flare of confusion in her big blue eyes makes laughter bubble in the back of my throat. This is the first time she has heard me speak and I can see her thoughts as she reaches for something just out of reach. On the tip of her tongue, as it were. Something is working on her simple little mind but she keeps missing it. I would be willing to bet anything - my power, my soul, my life - that my voice is stirring up whisper-thin memories but who really knows the sound of their own voice? All it does is give her another itch that she can't scratch.

For some reason, this makes me smile wider inside. It is so easy to frustrate her but it never seems to get old. Fighting any kind of break in my clear concern, I raise a hand. She shifts her weight as if to move forward, acting as if I have summoned her. Quickly, I drop my hand again and look to the roses for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lift her little chin. Defiance now, I see. That is a relief. I thought she was about to cry. I do not want tears. Not from her, not yet.

(My tears joined the ocean currents a long time ago.)

"I understand that Eric is very fond of you," I continue, seeing which way the hook will twist with sweet poison in my words. "He is such a fine man, so generous. It is one of the most admirable things about him. Don't you agree?" She nods obediently but her eyes light up with a familiar fervency. I summon up a smile and remember some of the silly human customs. "I'm sure he'll arrange to have a pretty dress made for you. Would you like to stand witness as my flower girl at the wedding?"

A soundless convulsion of expression passes over her face and I watch her go ghostly pale. Her hand reaches out to grab at the edge of the table beside her and she checks her own swaying motion. In a mockery of her innocence, I tilt my head to show that I don't understand what is wrong. The brat lifts her chin one more time in a brave show and my resulting smile rings a bit too true for a moment. She gasps at that, ducks her head again, and scampers out of the room like a frightened child. Shaking my head, I cross to where she had stood and bend to retrieve one of the roses. A thorn pricks my finger but I bite back the gasp easily. I watch the bead of blood rise to the surface, bright red against the strange skin I now wear. It's only temporary, though. Everything is temporary.

I put my fingertip in my mouth and turn back to the vanity. I have a dinner to prepare for, a prince to keep until I'm done with him.

When I look in the mirror, I can see past this silly, insipid mask. My smile is my own despite the borrowed face and borrowed voice. So is my mind and, despite how attractive the silly prince might be, I know the truth about love. The little princess sees stars but I know all about the whirlpool beneath.

(I'm almost doing her a favor.)


End file.
